Sleeping Over
by Flanna
Summary: Jonathan and Andrew and some quality bonding time. (slash)


Title: Sleeping Over  
  
Author: Flannery  
  
Rating: PG  
  
Pairing: Jonathan/Andrew (briefly mentions Andrew/Warren, Jonathan/Buffy)  
  
Summary: Jonathan and Andrew and some quality bonding time.  
  
Disclaimer: Joss created these boys. I'm just playing with them.  
  
Feedback: Give it!  
  
Author's notes: This is for Alice, because she unwittingly inspiring this fic. Takes place late in season five, and contains the word aluminum.   
  
* * *  
  
"How about," Andrew spoke through a mouthful of half-chewed popcorn, "Alana Claire Ainsley."  
  
"Ooh," said Jonathan knowingly.  
  
"I saw her the other day." Andrew drew his knees to his chest. He moved the popcorn bowl closer to Jonathan, who was less likely to spill it. "She works at that health-food kiosk at the mall."  
  
"Does she look the same? I haven't seen her since high school."  
  
Andrew nodded vehemently. "She's sooo beautiful. Her hair is shiny, it's like... like obsidian. And she's all pale too. Like, more pale than she was. And not Hot Topic-goth pale, you know? But soft-pale."  
  
"Yeah," sighed Jonathan, "I know."  
  
The heels of Jonathan's bare feet scraped, the noise barely audible, against the flannel of his sleeping bag. His knee came within inches of tipping the popcorn bowl.  
  
Alana Claire Ainsley: Whenever the pair thought of her, it was always using her full name. It rang on the tongue, sounded so musical and classical that it seemed a shame to shorten it. The one time Alana Claire Ainsley had spoken to Jonathan, he'd blushed and spat out her full name when he addressed her. Jonathan still felt embarrassed when he thought back on the moment. She'd given him the most peculiar look -- not weirded out, but more bemused. This was Alana Claire Ainsley, a girl that wasn't just an amazing beauty, but also a non-enemy of the nerd folk.  
  
"It's good to know she's not dead." Jonathan took a handful of popcorn, chewed it slowly as he pondered. "Or undead," he added.  
  
He shifted in place until he sat cross-legged atop the sleeping bag. An affectionate smile graced Jonathan's face. "Buffy Summers."   
  
Through another mouthful of popcorn, Andrew said, "I was wondering when you'd bring her up."  
  
"She's a goddess," sighed Jonathan. He flopped backward on his sleeping bag.  
  
"Isn't she dating that meathead with the --"  
  
"His name's Riley."  
  
For as long as Andrew had known Jonathan, he'd been hung up on Buffy Summers. He rarely talked about Buffy, as if he was ashamed, as if it was insulting that such a lower life form as Jonathan would be in love with her. Buffy dated tall men, tough men, men that had never seen Red Dwarf and spent their evenings destroying the undead. "Not... not short nerds that need to cast reality-augmenting spells to make friends."  
  
"I'm not a spell," defended Andrew, helpfully. "And, and that was a long time ago. Like, a whole year."  
  
On the television, Life of Brian had long since ended. A rerun of some drama involving hospitals and possibly lawyers played out on the screen, but the conversation was taking up all of their attention.  
  
"You know, I heard that Riley left Buffy," Andrew mentioned. He smiled. "Maybe she --"  
  
"Please," said Jonathan, frowning, "don't say it. She's never going to want me."  
  
After all the bad relationships Buffy has had -- not that she'd actually confided in Jonathan; he'd had to find things out in his own way -- she deserved a nice relationship with a normal guy. Someone that can stay out of trouble, for the most part, and would buy her flowers and make her herbal tea after a hard night of slaying, and cuddle her as she fell asleep.  
  
Jonathan sighed wistfully.  
  
Suddenly, Andrew was shifting in place. He looked nervous. Then, he muttered, "Warren Mears."  
  
"What? I didn't --"  
  
"Warren Mears."   
  
Jonathan blinked. He attempted to digest the information, but kept choking on it.  
  
Andrew blushed. "Uh," he squeaked. "He's..." How to defend Warren? Though the three of them were friends, by Jonathan's sour expression it was clear to Andrew that there'd be no sane defense for his confession. "He's so smart, Jonathan. And he has these dark eyes that --"  
  
"I don't want to hear this." Jonathan shook his head. He hoped he'd shake the information out.  
  
It isn't like he didn't know Andrew was gay. Maybe not technically -- he did obsess over the occasional girl, but primarily fancied the male sex. There'd been Scott Hope, years ago, and Andrew had snuck into the prom in order to see Scott in his tux. There'd been Holden Webster from Drama class. Though not swinging that way himself, Jonathan could see the attraction to both men: Scott and Holden were attractive, intelligent and polite in a way most of their peers weren't. But Warren? Warren. Warren was Jonathan's friend, but he was a weasel.   
  
"He's not a weasel!" Andrew protested.  
  
Oh. Had he said that out loud?  
  
"Yes," answered Andrew, looking petulant.  
  
"I didn't mean to," muttered Jonathan. He paused, embarrassed, then said, "Look, Warren's my friend as much as he is yours -- though obviously not in the, uh, same way. But Andrew, the guy's scummy -- "  
  
"He isn't!"  
  
" -- when it comes to relationships."  
  
"Warren's just a bit emotionally immature," defended Andrew. He picked up a can of Dr. Pepper and took a slow drink; the deliberate gesture gave the conversation time to die. Jonathan had no right to be saying such things and Andrew was tired of this line of discussion.   
  
"Andy, you're my best friend. I'm just trying to look out for you."  
  
Andrew pouted into the aluminum can.  
  
"He's not a good..." Jonathan sighed. "You deserve so much more than someone like Warren."  
  
"Unfortunately," Andrew said darkly, "those kind of people don't take any interest in me." He crushed the can in his small hand, and the aluminum barely dented with the force of the squeeze.  
  
Jonathan didn't realize his hand was moving until it was resting on Andrew's forearm. "Yes they do, Andy." He grasped it gently, unaccustomed to feeling the warm skin under his palm.   
  
Andrew raised his eyes and Jonathan felt his face warm under his friend's gaze. He swallowed, and his mouth felt desert dry, and his tongue like sandpaper.  
  
In contrast, Andrew's lips were shining, glazed with saliva and soda residue.   
  
Jonathan breathed raggedly.  
  
"Jona..." Andrew licked his lips.  
  
"Oh my god," groaned Jonathan.  
  
Andrew exhaled. "What?" His lids had sunk low over his eyes. Bedroom eyes, thought Jonathan.   
  
Suddenly his hand was no longer resting on Andrew's arm, but laced instead with Andrew's long fingers. The room tilted around Jonathan, as if he was dreaming, as if he was drunk. His cheeks throbbed with blood so that he could feel every pulse.  
  
Andrew pursed his lips together, fluttered dark lashes against his face. He leaned in closer to Jonathan, slowly bringing a hand up to stroke Jonathan's cheek, resting the palm flat against the skin.  
  
Jonathan let out a ragged breath. "Andrew," he rasped.  
  
Andrew's bottom lip stuck out as he frowned. "Mmm, I thought you looked sick."  
  
"What?" He blinked. The swooning world snapped back into place so quickly, it gave Jonathan whiplash.  
  
"You're running a fever, Jonathan." Andrew's hand left his cheek and positioned itself across Jonathan's forehead. "No wonder you looked so out-of-it -- you're burning up!"  
  
Jonathan sat silently as Andrew's hand smoothed the hair back from his forehead. He still wasn't entirely sure what that little episode was all about. The heat, the -- oh god -- the electricity between them. That hadn't been there before; Jonathan had no interest in boys. Rather, he hadn't ever before, and Jonathan had always been fairly honest with himself about his feelings.  
  
The hand continued to rake through his hair. Jonathan shut his eyes; he was willing to let Andrew pet him all night. Finally he said, "I just feel a little light-headed, that's all." His voice still sounded thin, he still breathed too deeply.  
  
"Why don't you lie down?"  
  
Nodding, Jonathan sank backward. Andrew's hand stayed in Jonathan's hair as he moved until his head rested against the lumpy pillow and Andrew was leaning over him. He worked his feet into the sleeping bag. It wasn't cold enough to crawl all the way inside.  
  
When had Jonathan gone from talking about girls to wanting to kiss his best friend? He felt so embarrassed. Ridiculous, for thinking that Andrew was going to -- just a minute ago was --  
  
With Andrew leaning over him, with that soft touch against his scalp, the earlier feeling of warmth refused to leave Jonathan. Before he caught himself, he said, "Can I have a goodnight kiss?"  
  
Andrew seemed momentarily stunned, then giggled affectionately. "Okay," he said.  
  
Those lips felt as slick and soft as they appeared, and Jonathan's eyes closed as Andrew kissed him. The room spun again. It lasted only a second -- half a second, maybe -- and then Andrew was again hovering above him, smiling.  
  
"Nighty night, Jonathan. Feel better!"  
  
When the television was shut off, when the room was flushed with darkness, Jonathan licked his lips. He expected to taste the kiss still, but there wasn't anything there.   
  
Andrew stirred beside him. The rustle of his sleeping bag seemed very loud against the sudden silence.  
  
Warren Mears. How is that fair? Andrew was much too sweet, much too fragile for a guy like Warren. Warren was slimy. He deserved his robot girls.  
  
Andrew deserved better.  
  
Andrew deserved...  
  
Forcing his eyes shut, Jonathan tried to sleep.  
  
* * * 


End file.
